


The Dangers of Developing a Sweet Tooth in Humans

by babybluecas



Series: and so you fell [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel in the Bunker, Fallen Angel Castiel, Human Castiel, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Running, Season 9, Training, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-06
Updated: 2016-06-06
Packaged: 2018-07-12 18:10:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,292
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7117015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/babybluecas/pseuds/babybluecas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas's newfound love for sweets doesn't come without consequences and Dean's not exactly happy when he becomes a collateral.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Dangers of Developing a Sweet Tooth in Humans

**Author's Note:**

> "You guys don't walk enough. You're gonna get flabby" - prompt by Anloquen
> 
> I bet you didn't expect a revival (aka has it really been over 2 years already? Whoah)
> 
> If you haven't read the previous parts, no worries, it can be read as a standalone as well as as a part of a series.

To liken Dean's current situation to hell is not really that much of a stretch. His whole body, his every muscle is in flames, throat dried out from the constant rush of air in and out, lungs a few more starved gulps away from bursting out and imploding at once.

Ironically, the only part of his body that is not in agony are his legs, which, by now do the whole dirty work independently from his brain’s commands (his brain yells "stop jogging, you moron"). But that's only because he can't feel his legs at all. For the moment at least. He doesn't have the slightest doubt that it's just a matter of seconds, minutes at best until the flames rush down through them again with double the force. For now, his upper body seems to be floating through the cool, morning air that brings little relief. That is not to say there's anything remotely pleasant about the experience. And tomorrow? Well, tomorrow he might just drop a few hell circles deeper when he cannot move a sore muscle.

And to think the whole torture could have been avoided had Dean not been a total dog for a little slice of flesh. Cas’s tummy, to be precise, pale skin marked with the trail of dark hairs leading all the way down under the hem of Cas's jeans, leaving a whole lot to Dean's wild imagination. In fact, it's all Cas's fault. Cas’s and his complete lack of restrictions. It’s been years, now, of Dean’s reprimands about the personal space issues and it’s like talking to a wall. Or worse - walls don’t usually go rubbing their crotch into a guy’s face.

Who the hell does that? And in a totally non-sexy situation at that. Sure, said crotch was jean-clad, thank fuck, and— well, alright, maybe said “rubbing” wasn’t nearly as intrusive of his face as it felt at the time. Took place a good few inches away, in fact, and maybe, just maybe, Dean could have easily turned his eyes away, the whole head even. He could have found a nice spot on the bookshelf on the left and wait out Cas grabbing the book from above his head in peace.

But Dean didn’t do that, because he’s Dean and because one second he was chilling in his armchair, next the armchair got busy with the two of them, Cas on his tiptoes, leg slipped between Dean’s knees. One hand pressed next to his head for support, the other reaching high, movement raising the purple hem of his shirt, baring the buckle, the fly, a stripe of his stomach right before Dean’s eyes.

And fuck Dean (literally, please) if his eyes weren’t thorough scanning his landscape, the curve of Cas’s tummy, soft edges of his hip bones begging to be licked as they peaked out where his jeans slipped down, barely holding on in a still reasonably decent place, brown belt doing a totally shitty job there.

The belt itself, in conditions as unfavorable as they were, didn’t so much as raise Dean’s eyebrow in passing. It should have - cheap leather-wannabe stretched around the loose hole, rubbed pale from the metal stripe to the right of the buckle. All too insignificant to compete for his attention with the treasure trail just above it, it curled itself into the hook of a question mark and nested at the back of his mind to nag him gently when Dean’s only operating brain was not the one restricted by the cotton of his boxers.

The sweet torment took no more than a few seconds before Cas pulled away and went on with his business like nothing had happened. With the book under the arm, he pulled his shirt down and his baggy hand-me-down jeans up like he hadn’t just handed Dean a one-way ticket under the shower. To top it off, the asshole stole the last donut from the box like it had his name on it and left the library without so much as a hello.

In retrospect, the incident hardly seemed all that big of a deal, even to Dean. It’s not like that was the first time Cas had put his pants in danger. By then, Dean had had enough shower sessions to get over the initial panic at his cock’s reaction to Cas’s hair or tummy or other body parts. So yeah, he might have hots for a guy, but as long as he doesn’t say it out loud, he’s good.

Had Dean had the slightest idea what (totally non-sexy) turn the things would take from there, he’d have made damn sure to never let his eyes stray anywhere near the strategic parts of Cas’s body. Or any parts of Cas’s body. Or just— Cas, in general.

And he’d definitely keep his fucking trap shut.

In Dean’s defense, he tried. He did keep his mouth shut, his hungry eyes and thoughts away from his friend. But, of course, that couldn’t last long. The not-so-strong resolution crumbled, at once, under the glaring provocation from Cas. Because not staring at his lips was hard enough without the white smudge on the arch of his upper lip. And that, too, was merely the cherry on top, what with Cas sporting his bangs combed up in a swirl, shoulders bared by the white undershirt. Some hummed melody seeped from between those lips and it might have just been Creedence, his fingers flipped through papers laid out on the table before him.

Cas perked his head up at Dean’s entrance, face towards Dean, never letting him just pass by and go on with his day. There it was, the obnoxious evidence of— well, of something. Judging by his five o’clock shadow, not of shaving. And having that crossed off the list, Dean didn’t have many other guesses. Only one, really, and it made him lick his own lips half-consciously. Whipped cream. Well, if it wasn’t a perfect rom-com scenario. Whatever kind of test this was, he was failing it miserably. Cas’s lips were certainly one of those parts of him he was not supposed to stare at, and most definitely not dream of sucking them clean.

“You’ve got some, uh—” Dean pointed to Cas’s face from the safe distance when the guy’s mirroring reaction hadn’t kicked in.

Cas fumbled a bit around his mouth, failing to wipe the smear off and Dean’s fingers started to do some serious itching to reach out and do it for him. Hardly containing himself, Dean raised one finger to his own lip to help Cas navigate.

Finally, Cas found the spot, wiped the cream off with his thumb and obscenely put it into his mouth, sucked gently to lick it off, never letting his eyes off Dean’s. And, God, all this had gotten too hard to write off as Cas’s social skills failure.

Or maybe it was Dean’s mind making up things, because when the next second Cas informed him that it had, in fact, been whipped cream, he did so in the most passionless way possible.

And then his tongue slipped out nonchalantly to wash off the sugary residue and Dean had to physically turn his entire body away, cast his eyes to the table, to Cas’s papers, to the real culprit of the whole commotion resting and melting on the plate next to Cas’s elbow.

Dean’s eyebrow rode up to his hairline.

"You took the last slice of pie," he accused, bravely hiding his disappointment. It wasn’t the first time he considered buying a separate fridge to put in his room. Disappearing snacks and candies were one thing. Overt stealing of the last slice of pecan pie was simply rude. "Dude, not okay."

"Oh, did you want it?” Cas shot him his wide-eyed, innocent look. The ‘I used to be an angel and I’ve little comprehension of human customs’ type that would have worked on Dean, normally. But this was pecan pie they were talking. “I thought no one wanted it, it was in the fridge."

"Well, you should have asked then."

"Um, do you want it, Dean? There’s still some left."

Dean looked at the sad, half-eaten slice, whipped cream dropping off the edges, before going back to glaring at Cas.

"No, thanks, eat it," he muttered through his clenched jaw, plopping down on the chair, making a point of showing his discontent. "You keep living off sweets, you’re gonna get fat.”

It was supposed to be a throwaway line, a joke. Just a thing you say when some asshole eats the damn last slice of a pie and has been eating your stock of sweets since moving in. It wasn't supposed to turn into a great revelation when all elements suddenly click together. The elements he should never have noticed: the curve of Cas's tummy, a softer contour of his hip bones, that fucking belt snapped on a hole looser than it used to be, leaving the pale mark as an evidence.

"Ha!” Dean slapped his palm against the table. “You've gotten fat already, haven't you?"

As Dean’s chuckle resounded, a look of horror flashed on Cas’s face. The man masked it with a furrow of his brow, lips puckered, arms crossed defensively, but the redness that flushed his neck betrayed him.

“No, I haven’t!” he snapped back, probably a bit hastier than he intended.

He stuck his nose back to his papers to indicate the end of conversation but Dean, against his better judgement, just couldn’t let go.

“Your belt.” Dean leaned to reach behind the table and pull the hem of Cas's undershirt up, too amused to hang on to the tummy this time. "You loosened it."

Cas smacked his hand and fixed his shirt. He was calm when he spoke again, never raising his eyes to Dean.

“I’ll admit it has gotten a little restraining. When I was sitting,” he rushed to add, pages turning between his fingers. “But now it’s too loose and the belt doesn’t serve its function anymore, which is annoying.”

“Don't worry, you'll fill it up soon enough," Dean kept teasing, his lopsided smile went unnoticed by Cas. He was being a total ass and he knew it, but Cas overreacting to the whole thing was adorable to watch. 

Cas’s glare wiped the smile off Dean’s face at once. He seemed seconds away from sending all of Heaven’s fury down on him, which was frankly terrifying.

“Even if I do,” he drawled the words, voice gruff and powerful as in his good, old, angelic days, “that's none of your business.” He made a full-body turn away from Dean and pulled the plate with half-eaten pie closer, but instead of eating it, started dabbing at it with the fork.

“Whoah, easy Cas, I was just teasing, man,” he bumped Cas’s calf with his foot, but Cas only moved his leg away. “Come on, it’s not a big deal. God knows — and a whole ton of ladies too — I’ve a bit of tummy myself. Let me tell you, they love it. Ladies, of course, not God.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Cas commented in a tone suggesting that he did doubt that very much.

Dean pinched the bridge of his nose. “I’m sorry, Cas, okay?” he said, honestly, now really starting to feel like a grade-A dick. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but if it’s a problem, you can always go jogging with Sam.”

“Did I hear jogging?” Sam popped out of nowhere like a creepy guy from a detergent commercial, face bright, grin wide. Dean really wanted to punch him.

“Yes,” Cas turned to Sam, before Dean could so much as open his mouth, “Dean’s worried about his pouch and wanted to take up jogging.”

It was a freakin’ slap to the face and Dean needed a good second to get a grasp on what had actually just happened. A little part of his brain assured him that he had totally deserved it. The whole rest pounded the alarm. He’d gone all sweet and apologetic on Cas and this was what the guy repaid him with? That was just a complete misuse of trust.

“Pouch?” Dean echoed. “I don’t have a pouch, you have a pouch!” He threw his arms up turning to Sam. “Cas has been sitting on his ass all days and eating my food and getting fat. You should give him your worst.”

Sam seemed way too amused by the situation. With his hands in his pockets, he let riled up Dean go over all kinds of hell he should put Cas through. Finally, around the full-on polygon routine, Sam raised his palm.

“Alright, get it, Dean,” he cut Dean off mid-sentence. “Here’s an idea. How about the both of you join me? If not to lose the pouches you might or might not have, then just for health.” Sam ended with a shrug, like he’d just given the most innocent statement ever.

Dean put all his energy into pulling a disgusted grimace, preparing a violent refusal, which only  allowed Cas beat him to the answer.

“I think that’s an excellent idea, Sam. Thank you.”

They were doing this thing again. The two against one that made Dean feel like the third wheel. Chick-flick buddies, soft-rock buddies. Now they could be jogging buddies too. Maybe it’s Dean, after all, who should go out find himself a wife. Not that he’d ever thought about any other dynamics where Sam finds a girlfriend and Dean— yeah, that had never crossed his mind.

Dean snorted. “I’m not gonna start jogging like some soccer mom. What’s next? Pilates?”

As he watched Sam’s mouth open, Dean realized he’d just given him the perfect topic to rant on about it, the health benefits, condition, cardio and what not of pilates, and maybe it wasn’t such a bad thing as long as it could take the two of them off his back.

But before Sam could say anything, Cas cut in, turning out to be a perfect ass, which he’d, of course, had to learn from Dean.

“Are you afraid you won’t keep up?” Cas challenged him and if Dean ever thought of his earlier smirk as smug, well, what was he supposed to call this then?

Cas’d known exactly where to hit, fuck Dean’s pride very much.

“I won’t keep up?” Dean barked. “You won’t keep up. You and your last slice of pie.”

“Okay, great!” Sam surmised before Dean could protest. “See you tomorrow at seven, then! Okay, eight,” he corrected for Dean’s sake and left just like that before Dean could punch him.

Before he could punch either of them, not really sure which of them he wanted to murder more: Cas with his smug face or Sam with his excitement.

 

So there he is. Jogging. Spitting out whatever’s left of his lungs and cursing himself for not throwing his alarm clock at Sam when he intruded his room in the morning after the fifth snooze. It would have only taken a lot of grunting and a very impolite manner of saying “no” to back out. Well, that and a whole lot of his pride.

Now he’s not sure his pride was worth it.

It was fun at the beginning. Or maybe fun isn’t the most proper word. But he sure had great views. Like a pro-jogger, Cas dressed up in a gray t-shirt that stretched across his chest and a pair of tight shorts he magically pulled out from God knows where.

Dean’s gotta be thankful for those and curse them at the same time. They hug the curve of Cas’s ass and expose the muscles of his thighs and his calves as they tense in the run and during the warm-up Sam so stubbornly forced them into. Apparently, before you start training you have to train for the training. And then, after training, you train some more.

And people say Inception was complicated.

“You’re not even trying,” Sam scolded Dean, hovering over him like a freakin’ PE teacher. “If you don’t stretch well, you might injure something. Take an example from Cas.”

An asshole PE teacher, he added the last part to play on Dean’s newfound competitiveness, but it could hardly help. Observing Cas as he stretched was exactly why Dean wasn’t trying. Why bend over to touch his fingers to his toes, when there was Cas doing the same thing right before Dean, his back turned to him. His lower, lower back.

It was a strain, putting his eyes to the ground, but it would have been a bigger strain to exercise if he hadn’t.

Running was easy: chasing, even fleeing - that he could do: going from point A to point B. It all made sense, especially on the adrenaline rush when the powerful juice shot through his veins and filled his muscles with just enough energy to make it to wherever he needed to be. Jogging, on the other hand, felt straight-up douchey. Putting one foot in front of another in a fashion slightly more upbeat than in walking but much slower than in sprint. And there’s no fucking destination, only running round and round in circles. Douchey and pointless, that’s what jogging is.

But there’s also no philosophy to it and as soon as Dean caught his pace, he was good. They ran in single file on the narrow path between the trees: Sam leading the way, Dean at the back. Cas’s nylon-clad ass bumping up and down in front of him. Maybe the whole jogging thing hadn’t been a completely horrible idea after all.

His contentment didn’t last long, though, and soon even his perfect view on the muscles on Cas’s back flexing underneath his tight shirt couldn’t take his thoughts off his own burning muscles. Especially as said view started to drift away, bit after bit.

“Dean, we can stop if you need rest,” Sam shouted to him, glancing at him over his shoulder and never even losing a step. “You shouldn’t force yourself, it’s your first time.”

“I’m fine, keep going.” He waved at Sam, secretly counting on a stray root popping out on the path right at Sam’s toes.

He couldn’t give up then, when Cas hardly broke a sweat and he can’t give up now, even if he’s started having a near out of body experience around what must have been the tenth mile.

“Ten miles?” Sam chuckles at Dean’s wheezed out observation. “We’ve only run like half a mile.”

“What?” Dean feels like his entire - or whatever is left of - soul is fleeing his tormented body.

“Three-fourths maybe.”

He finally says fuck it at that, because it’s one thing to sacrifice his temporary well-being for ten miles, three-fourths of a mile are certainly not worth it.

He doesn’t take another step beyond the six feet he needs to slow down and roll into the coat of fallen leaves. He listens to the two sets of steps jogging away as he tries to calm his breath. The relief of lying down, relaxing his poor legs feels nearly heavenly. The cool ground beneath his back is a balm to his burning skin.

Through the beating of his heart pounding in his ears, he doesn’t hear the one set of steps coming back.

“Sam said we need to stretch now,” says Cas’s face, appearing for a second in his field of vision.

“Fuck stretching,” Dean mutters, turning his head to where Cas is already diving down to his right ankle. “We’ve already done that.”

“Yea, but if you don’t, you might get cramps.”

“Fuck cramps,” Dean decides, bringing his palms to his eyes, even though the prospect of having his muscles curl into hard, painful lumps and their echoes follow his every movement for hours is something he’s not really looking forward to. Still, not bad enough, at the moment at least, to get him to move his legs. Even if his legs could move.

And then his legs are moving. At least one of them is, pulling up, heel to his butt, knee to his chin. Dean’s eyes shoot open.

“What the hell are you doing, Cas?”

The majority of Dean’s vision, when he holds his head up, is filled with his own leg. The rest of it comprises of Cas’s flushed, smiley face and hair sticking up.

“Helping you stretch,” Cas answers matter-of-factly. One of his palms holding Dean’s shin, the other wrapped around his ankle. “Scream if I push too hard.”

Dean tries to slap Cas’s hand away and wiggle himself out of the situation that doesn’t feel as uncomfortable as it should. But the guy’s grip turns out inescapable and with a firm press he has Dean pinned to the ground. Dean surrenders.

“How the hell are you not dying?” he asks Cas as he puts his leg down and grabs the other. He’s got way too much energy for what they’ve both just gone through. Apparently, for Cas it was a walk - or jog - in the park and not a walk through hell.

“I am, constantly,” he answers with a playful spark in his eyes. “Each day closer to death.”

Dean rolls his eyes. “Wow, you’re so funny. Forgive me not laughing.”

Cas pushes closer, using his entire body as leverage, head low. The huff of his breath brushes the tip of Dean’s nose. His eyes, wide and blue, are the size of Jupiter. Dean needs to close his, concentrate on the reddish glow of sunrays piercing through them instead of that blue. Instead of those lips, parted in heavier breaths, inches from him.

“You’ll keep getting better as you keep training.”

Dean’s eyes shoot wide open. His terror must be showing on his face because Cas chuckles.

“What? Are you done showing me you can keep up?” he teases, helping Dean seat up.

“Don’t ruin it,” Dean warns, but there’s hardly any threat in his voice. He got his ass kicked today and he should at least try to own up to it. “You don’t plan to-” he trails off.

“I do,” Cas answers, pretty damn sure of his decision.

Dean’s not really surprised, Cas did good. Hopping from foot to foot, posture straight, hands swinging back and forth, he looked like he was made for it. He never even let his head down to make sure he won’t stumble and fall flat on his face.

“Huh, well, good, I guess.”

Cas lands his elbows on his knees, leans forward, as if he wasn’t too close to Dean already, still sitting right next to Dean’s knees, his calf touching Dean’s bare arm.

“It’s nice, jogging, it let me clear my head. Before you started wheezing behind me.”

“Shut up.” Dean grabs a bunch of leaves and throws them at Cas.

“Besides,” Cas smiles and shakes the leaves off himself, “it is good for health. And you were right, I should pay more attention to, uh, this stuff. I don’t just mean weight, but also my muscles, strength, stamina. Angels are constant, we— they don’t take strength from exercises. Human bodies need that. They are always changing, whether you do something about it or not. I’m slowly starting to wrap my head around the idea. I have to make a decision how I want this body to change.”

There is nothing in his tone, his sullen expression to suggest he isn’t one hundred percent serious about that. Wanting to take control of the things he can actually control seems like a great next step to moving forward, and even if that means putting up with another olympian wannabe at home, Dean’ll be damned if he won’t support him all the way. As long as he doesn’t have to take a part more active than that of a cheerleader, that is.

“Nice epiphany there, buddy,” Dean says to lighten the atmosphere. “You should be glad you didn’t end up as a teenager, that would be a wild ride.”

Cas huffs out a brief laugh before turning his eyes to his fingers playing with a dry, cracked leaf. “At least I’d have good two decades until popping discs and, and graying hair.”

Dean shoots him a sympathetic smile the guy doesn’t even see. It seems silly to worry about gray hair when neither of them might live long enough anyway. But then, Cas had gone most of his existence with a slightly longer life expectancy in mind. And died a few times before. Maybe that’s not the death part that concerns Cas, at all, but rather the way bodies tend to decay with their hearts still beating.

“Don’t be so vain.” Dean bumps Cas’s knee. “You’ll look dignified in salt and pepper.”

It works, when Cas’s face perks back up, there’s no sign of sulking on it.

“Thanks. You too.”

“Yeah, we’ll be two, dignified, old men,” Dean snarks, as he attempts to gather himself off the ground. “At least, then, no one will force me into jogging anymore. Let’s go.”

Cas is up in one graceful move. Dean might be taking his time but he surely doesn’t need Cas’s help to stand on his own two feet. He only takes Cas’s outstretched hand out of a courtesy. His legs are still a little shaky, but he can walk just fine, and this time he keeps up with Cas as they begin their march back home.

“I could really eat a giant, greasy burger right now,” Dean mutters, patting his stomach, hoping Cas won’t go all salad-buddy with Sam as well. There’s only so much betrayal Dean can take. “How far away are we?”

Cas turns to him with the fucking widest grin ever. “Ten miles.”

At least he doesn’t dodge, when Dean serves him a well-deserved punch in the shoulder.


End file.
